Freak
by gracezodiac
Summary: A 13 year old Sherlock has to deal with all the voices in his head.


_**Freak.**_

He didn't quite like the sound of that word. People said it too often to him. About him. In any way they could. He didn't bother telling anybody though. At times, he thought about letting Mycroft in on what they said, but he decided not to. Mycroft would be too busy to care. It was late one night. School had been terrible again for Sherlock. They'd yelled, screamed, and laughed at him. Normally it wouldn't bother him, but today somebody had said something which made him think.

"**Why don't you just kill yourself freak? Nobody likes you, stalker boy!"**

He'd sighed, protested that he wasn't a stalker, and that he was merely observing, but it did him no good. They hit him once again. Kicked, punched, he was battered and bruised. At the time he'd shrugged it off, and went back to lessons, ignoring the silly little sniggers and shoves. He walked home alone, something that he didn't mind, after all he was used to it. Friends weren't his thing. At the dinner table with the family he was silent, as per usual, but something occurred to Mycroft that it was something different this time. Sherlock's eye was going dark, and he could tell that it had been swollen for a few hours.

"Sherlock dear what have you done to your eye? You look such a mess, honestly!"

"Rough game of sports mother."

"I don't know, what am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock grumbled. His mother wouldn't understand, nor care if she knew the truth. At least that's what he'd told himself. Who would believe him? He'd noticed his brother leering at him. Sherlock shot him the evils before continuing to drag his fork through his food and refuse to eat.

"Sherlock, has somebody hit you?"

"No, Mycroft."

The tone of his voice ended all conversations for the rest of the meal. In the end Sherlock just gave up and walked away from the table, despite the irritating cries from his mother, asking him to come back. He never was a huge fan of eating.

After walking up the vast staircase to his bedroom, he slammed his door shut, almost as if he was making a statement. So much information was being processed through his brain, it was hard to make sense of it all. He didn't know why he could work out the things he could. He didn't understand why people didn't like him. He didn't understand why he didn't like people. Little thirteen year old Sherlock only saw questions, answers, and data in his mind.

_So much we learn is irrelevant. I must find a way rid myself of these unnecessary burdens._

Try as he might, he couldn't. He was still too young. He still had childhood innocence, though he understood most things normal adults couldn't. This didn't concern him, not at all, it simply amused him. He could join in with their conversations, if they'd let him. Though Sherlock wasn't one for talking. He hadn't quite found his voice yet. Words and meanings swirled around some more in his brain.

_Psychopath, sociopath, freak. _

His hands pulled on his own dark curls, as he violently shook his head.

"Go away. Please leave!"

The writing refused to go. It encased him, but he didn't know why. He hated not knowing things. He gazed upon his violin, lying gracefully on his bed. Although it was dark, the dim glow of the moonlight shone into his room through the blue curtains. That colour did fascinate him slightly. The wood was perfect, and the way the instrument had been crafted, was beautiful. But not nearly as beautiful as the sound it made when he played it. Embracing the smoothly made object, he sat on his bed and began to play. It was a distraction for his mind. For a while, it made the writing go away. The voices disappeared. Though it wasn't long before they came back.

"No, no, NO!"

He began to scream again, anything to block out the voices and writing.

"Make it go away. Shut up, leave me alone. I don't understand, quiet! GO AWAY!"

He felt something roll off his cheeks, something that tasted slightly salty and warm. Could they be tears? Sherlock barely ever cried, in fact, he wasn't even sure if he'd ever cried before. Right now, he couldn't tell whether he liked this experience. He felt like he was getting something off his chest. But it made him feel weak, which was something he knew he was not. He didn't know how to stop this thing he had now called crying. It just started somehow. In the corner of his eye, he spotted a very ragged, but still looking new, teddy bear. It had a badly made jumper on, something a relative had made for him, but Sherlock liked it. He'd named the bear John. He was rather fond of that name. As to why, he wasn't sure, but he just knew that he liked it. After grabbing it, he held it very tightly, something most people would call a hug. It helped ease the crying situation, so he kept on hugging the bear. He'd completely lost all sense of the time, but he figured that it didn't matter. Once he'd calmed down, he placed the bear under his bead. Nobody else could have it. He was a little protective over it. He'd thrown a fit once when his mother had tried to take it away from him. A little idea popped up in his head, something that he'd tried before, but couldn't determine what to make of it. He needed more data...

Oblivious everybody was, for they hadn't noticed that one of the sharp knives was missing, and had been for nearly a year. Sherlock had stolen it one day, and kept it in his room. They would have noticed, but none of them dared to step foot into his bedroom. Mycroft would occasionally, merely to tell him that it was time to eat, or that he needs to stop playing the violin in the early hours of the morning, but excluding those occasions, Sherlock's room was generally out of bounds. He held the blade in his hand, admiring the way the moonlight glinted off it. This was not the first time he'd experimented with knives. There were still traces of blood from the last time. He held out his arm, and pressing the blade onto different parts, seeing how different pressures effected how much blood was drawn. His arm flipped over, to his wrist. With one swift stroke of the blade, the blood started to flow freely.

"Interesting."

The blood was dripping onto the bed sheets, Sherlock sat on top of them. He was smiling, the voices had stopped, and the writing had vanished. For the while he could concentrate on the blood. He couldn't tell how deep he'd cut. He was going light headed, but he liked the feeling. It was as if he was floating on clouds. Because he was in this state of mind, peaceful for once, he couldn't direct the knife to his skin again. He just held it loosely in his hand.

"Sherlock?"

There came a whisper from his door. Sherlock turned his head, and it appeared to be Mycroft's head popping around the, now slightly ajar, door.

"Listen I... Sherlock? OH GOD! What have you done!"

Mycroft had broken his peaceful trance. He wasn't very happy about that. Mycroft didn't seem too happy either, as he raced into his room, he looked shocked, and very frightened. Because of the blood loss, Sherlock couldn't react as well, therefore giving Mycroft a good advantage to take the knife off him, and throw it across the room.

"Why Sherlock... why?"

His voice was a whisper, which in itself was breaking. Sherlock felt awfully confused. Mycroft never really seemed to care. He was so busy with studying. Mycroft had just turned seventeen. He felt guilty, this couldn't have just been the first time Sherlock had done this, and being his brother, he should have stopped him sooner. The guilt was overwhelming.

"Experiment... need more data... voices. Make it go away."

"Sherlock, answer me truthfully, have you been hit at school? Are you being bullied? Is this why you're doing this to yourself?"

Mycroft was sitting next to him on the bed, using some of the sheets and applying pressure to his wrist, so that it would stop bleeding. Oh, he was afraid, more than ever before.

"I'm fine Mycroft."  
"You're blatantly not Sherlock! Tell me, what are the kids at school doing to you? Saying to you?"

"What does it matter? You can't do anything about it. You never can! You never will."

Sherlock's response stunned Mycroft. For once, he had no comebacks. He was on the verge of crying, because he knew he was probably right. A sudden urge erupted within him, and he acted upon it, knowing that it was something he should have done a lot more of. He leaned towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, embracing him in a hug.

This sudden affection surprised the younger brother, leaving him speechless (more than he already was). It felt right though, and he believe that he liked it. He felt that water fill up in his eyes again, and didn't bother trying to hide it, and he wrapped his own long arms around Mycroft, sobbing into his shirt. The two brothers had never hugged before, and if they had, it was never like this.

"It's okay, I'm here Sherlock, I'm here."

"I hate them! I hate them all!"

"I know Sherlock... they don't understand."

Mycroft tightened his grip around him, trying to comfort him in whatever way he could. He hushed sweet sorrows, and loving words; all he wanted was for him to stop crying. It had been hours, without them realising, hours of them hugging in the dark. Sherlock had stopped crying, much to his brother's relief, and was sleeping peacefully in his arms. Mycroft admired his sleeping sibling, he was so beautifully pale, and he looked so peaceful when he slept. He didn't deserve all these worries, or the way people treated him. It wasn't fair. Sherlock was different, he knew that much, but it wasn't a reason to turn against him. He could only hope that one day, Sherlock would rise up and show them all that he's not what they say he is. That he's better than them, because he is. He truly is. He gently laid him out on the bed, pulling the unfortunately blood stained covers over him. He'd ripped off some of the sheets, and wrapped them around his wrist. He'd stopped bleeding, so he in theory he would be fine. Gently stroking his head, he spoke quietly, not sure whether he was directing his words at Sherlock or just speaking to himself.

"One day you'll be appreciated. I promise Sherlock. That's why I'm going into the government. So I can do something about it. I can, and I will. Goodnight brother. I love you."

He sat up, and ruffled his hair, before walking out of the room. He peered round the door one last time to see if he had been listening. But Sherlock was sound asleep.


End file.
